


The Last Time

by TwilightDeviant



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Booty Call Angst, Enemies With Benefits, Except Fisk doesn’t know they’re enemies, M/M, Matt knows it enough for the both of them, art included
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 06:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30118530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightDeviant/pseuds/TwilightDeviant
Summary: Matt Murdock can sleep with Wilson Fisk. Daredevil cannot date the Kingpin.
Relationships: Wilson Fisk/Matt Murdock
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	The Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> Wilson Fisk… is the best at sex. There is no argument in our reality to convince me otherwise. Okay? There just isn’t. This man f*cks.
> 
> Yes, this fic is more or less all about sex and booty calls. Yes, it’s still rated T. I don’t get descriptive because I don’t want to. All the angst surrounding such a plot, however? Hello.
> 
> Commence booty call angst!

Ordinarily, their social circles never crossed. They might never have if not for the benefit dinner. Fisk was invited, of course. It was a client of Matt’s who insisted he show. It was for charity, so how could he decline?

Wilson Fisk was a wallflower. The bustle of such a crowd— with which he did not care to interact— drove him to its edges. Matt Murdock, a blind man, was obligated to remove himself from the throng or else pretend to bump into it all night. The ruse could get exhausting.

Matt was content to ignore the man’s nearby presence to the end. After all, how was he supposed to know Fisk was there unless the man spoke or someone told him?

The man spoke.

His conversation was not insufferable. Though when Fisk got Matt a drink and helped put it in his hand, it was simple to remember the strength of the Kingpin’s fist, how it harmed him countless times in their other lives.

Fisk had no idea he was Daredevil, but Matt carried the identities of them both in unfortunate burden. He knew it caused curt replies and clipped sentences. Why the man cared enough to pursue discussion with him, waiting until the unsociable persona melted, was a momentary mystery— solved soon after.

Fisk pressed the goodwill of giving Matt a ride home. Their interactions that night were so pleasant, it was difficult to turn him down. None of the arguments stuck.

He let Fisk claim his coat from the counter and willingly got into a car with the man. The situation got away from him so quickly.

Matt liked to pretend the night was a blur after that, but he remembered it all with perfect clarity. He remembered the car pulling up to his apartment, remembered Fisk’s heart rate climbing with apprehension, remembered the callused hand brushing against his cheek and asking permission. He remembered allowing Fisk to kiss him. He remembered letting the man come upstairs.

It was all an erroneous lapse of judgment, one he could never repeat. Matt told himself that every time it inevitably repeated. Scolding reiterations went nowhere.

The wretched fact was Matt enjoyed sleeping with him. The experience was unparalleled. Fisk did things no partner ever thought, not unless Matt asked. Even then, their performances paled. The man had no concern for his own pleasure, as if he took it solely from giving, and Matt was the victim of his unbridled benevolence. Wilson Fisk had the hellish distinction of being the greatest sex of Matt’s life, with second place a most distant second.

He hated it.

Matt was not obsessed with sex or a need to have it. Sometimes, he went a month at a time without crawling back to Fisk. But it felt good to him. Matt suffered pain and abuse so often— occasionally from Kingpin himself. He chose to forgo such agony for a night and let someone remind him a body could exist for more than hurting. No one kindled that remembrance better than Wilson Fisk.

Matt was weak to it.

He could ignore every nerve of pain in his arms, and legs, and back, and torso— far past what was wise. He fell again and again and again to the seduction of physical bliss.

The catalyst was often a drink— one, maybe two. Matt could not go too far. Fisk never let him in if he were drunk. Of course, he would find honor in the one place Matt did not want it. He drank only enough to drown his inhibitions, his common sense.

He knocked on the penthouse door.

Sometimes, Matt dictated a text to say he was coming over. Other times, he showed up completely unannounced. If he heard an empty apartment, he called Fisk on the phone, told him to return home; he was waiting. Rarely did the man tell him no.

Matt hated everything about the arrangement, but it worked. He got what he wanted, and Fisk did as well.

Why did he have to ruin it by needing more from Matt, by laying snares for an actual relationship? Damn him.

Fisk offered his shower and an invitation to spend the night.

No.

He asked Matt out to a restaurant.

No.

There was an evocative symphony in town.

No.

He called during the day. It went to voicemail.

He sent cardless flowers to Matt’s office— once.

Matt did not want to date him. He could sleep with the man against his better judgment, but Daredevil could not date Kingpin.

Fisk never gave up, though he might lay silent in his proposals for a time, pretending he understood the message, that he accepted his singular role in Matt Murdock’s life and how it would never deepen.

From someone so unexpectedly sentimental, it could only ever be an act.

The man thought he was clever. He was, of course, but not about this. He once tried to trick Matt into a meal, saying his text came in the middle of dinner preparations. There was enough for two and he was welcome to join.

“It can simmer for twenty minutes, right?”

Matt left when they were done, sweat still drying on his skin.

He did not feel sorry for Wilson Fisk, for the Kingpin of Crime. What was a little grief compared to true evil? Nothing.

Why did Matt’s chest feel tight for taking advantage of a villain and leaving?

That was the last time, Matt swore. For a month, he was right.

He went back. No call, no text. He knocked on the door and Fisk let him in.

Matt hated himself for his weakness, his surrender to flesh and its gratification. He told himself that for all the good he did and all the sins he resisted, he deserved one fault, one vice. He was justified in wanting to feel good every now and then. He was close to convincing himself.

That was why he told no one. Matt did not confess to his priest. He did not confide in Foggy. He did not pray to God for greater strength against temptation. He could speak with no one who might try and talk him out of what he was doing.

He needed it.

Kingpin struck Daredevil, and the vigilante let it hurt. Pain was the price he paid for all his risks. Matt worked through it all day, thinking of the people he helped, thinking of the reward his body deserved for such a sacrifice, thinking of the bruise he would tell Fisk he got falling over a table at the office.

He counted down the hours until that man would make him feel precious and fragile and worthy of a worshipping touch.

He turned down Foggy’s invitation for drinks.

Matt had no idea why he let Fisk kiss him, but he never stopped it either. He kissed back. It made less sense.

Fisk was gentle and adoring. He kissed Matt’s bruise as if he could erase the pain he unknowingly caused. He avoided hurting him further.

Yes.

He needed it.

Matt Murdock could sleep with Wilson Fisk.

Daredevil could not date the Kingpin.

An exhausted body could lie in caring arms longer than it should.

And suffer those consequences.

“It’s Friday.” Matt knew the day. He wondered why Fisk brought it to attention, murmuring the calendar against his naked shoulder. Hands of dormant violence stroked up and down his arm in soothing stimulation. “You shouldn’t… have work tomorrow.” He would not, barring an emergency, a client in need of their personal lawyer. Matt shook his head despite clear evidence of setup. “Stay,” Fisk asked, pleaded. He wanted Matt to stay the night, just once. He wanted to wake up with him, have coffee with him, breakfast with him.

Matt did not want that.

He pulled away from rejected hands and pushed back silk sheets. “I should go.”

Matt did not tarry in removing himself from Fisk’s comfortable, warm, embracing bed to search for his clothing on the floor. He never contained his careless passion of undress, of needing something and wasting no time in getting to it and getting done. It did make aftermath more difficult, finding his clothes while bluffing he could not see them.

Fisk sat against the headboard and watched with an irregular heartbeat. He wanted to say something. Matt prayed he would swallow it.

When was he ever so fortunate?

“You’re embarrassed by me,” Fisk assumed. Whether his looks, his age, or every act he committed on legal paper, he believed Matt was ashamed to be seen with him. He thought it for some time before finally speaking.

Matt paused with pants pulled over his hips, a flap in each hand waiting to be fastened. “Is anything in your life that simple?” he replied. He already knew the answer.

“No.”

A button. A zipper. Matt moved his foot along the floor, pretending to look for his shirt, pretending to be blind. “Neither is this.”

Fisk got up from bed and grabbed the shirt before Matt could. He offered it but did not withdraw his grip in submission to its owner. The cloth hung between them, binding both men to the scene.

“Stay,” he begged. It was all he wanted, and he wanted it so desperately. How much he gave, how many sacrifices he made, and he asked for so little. Like Matt.

It was their fate, it seemed, to always be on either side of the same coin, opposing but parallel. What they did never should have happened in the first place. Matt had the responsibility to stop it when he could, to keep their rivalry from ever becoming so complicated. He was cursed with every knowledge, and he was denied every sweet ignorance.

It was his fault everything happened.

Matt’s hand clenched around the shirt, wishing he could pull it from the strength of a mountain. He wanted to leave.

Fisk wanted him to stay.

“I can’t.”

The words were wrong. His expression was tainted— not with denial but conflict. Something stopped him from giving in, something he refused to name. Matt was in danger of giving it away— not the truth; he was too resolute for that. He exposed there was a truth, a secret to be known.

“Tell me why,” Fisk asked. He let go of the shirt to press his hand against Matt’s face, a gesture he hoped would be embraced. He wanted to cradle Matt’s burden with promises he could be trusted. Let him help. Let him in.

It was almost unfair he would never know the truth.

Matt pulled away and dressed.

“I can’t.”

He left, slipping between hands that wanted to grab him, keep him.

No.

Everything was voluntary. Nothing was forced.

Fisk could not make him stay, could not make him tell.

Matt could not make the man accept what he offered, all he ever would. Because he could not make Fisk quit being Kingpin. And Daredevil could not date the Kingpin.

He left a man trying to give him more.

Fisk tired of a game Matt could not— would not— quit. Matt did not want to be there. He certainly did not want the man to think he was leading him on, that they had some future together. Matt got what he wanted— what he hated— for ten months without complications getting out of hand. He knew that courtesy was coming to a close.

He could have meaningless sex and hate himself in the morning. Fisk was not so detached. To him, it meant something more, but he suffered the bare minimum because he liked Matt.

It was the last time.

It had to be.

Matt no longer felt like a good man when they were together.

No more.

* * *

Fisk exhaled.

He hated watching Matt slip into his clothes and out the door. Precious little of their encounters ever made sense to him. He had no idea if they ever would. He tired of waiting to find out.

He was heartbroken by the expectation.

Those first few times, everything felt natural, their trajectory obvious. Being declined at the first dinner invitation stung, and he assumed it was the end. When Matt showed up again, it gave mixed signals and false hope. Over and over, Fisk let himself believe something might give while hearing firm answers it never would. Matthew did not want a relationship with him. Everything was physical and he never misled about that. It was all he wanted.

Fisk could not do it anymore.

That night had to be the last time. The boy was ruining him, consuming thoughts and dealing ache. Fisk did not know how many more times he could watch Matt leave as if their time together meant nothing, as if he meant nothing.

No more.

* * *

They met again three weeks later. Matt went to the door. Fisk let him in.

One more night.

**Author's Note:**

> I talk big about having a lot of toxic kinks with this ship (and I do), but I think I am really and truly weak for Fisk being soft with Matt. Being tender. Knowing Matt is strong but touching him with utmost care. Afraid Matt might break. Afraid he might break him.
> 
> Just… soft Fisk. Not in an insulting way. Matt would hate feeling demeaned and ‘made of glass.’ But in a way that says, “You deserve tenderness, but I don’t know if I trust myself to give it to you.”
> 
> I’m rambling, but that is what I can so easily do with this ship. They are otp.
> 
> Anyone wondering, obviously this fic situation would one day end with Fisk finding out. Most likely by Daredevil being de-masked in front of him. Delicious.


End file.
